Page 11 of Property of Spike

My dick is a fucking idiot, too.

“Riley,” I call out when her head starts to tilt to the side, her neck at an awkward angle. “Babe, you awake?”

No answer.

Damn it.

I move fast, kneeling in front of her and cupping her face. “Babe, need you to wake up.”

She makes a soft noise, a little hum that tells me she’s alive, but her arms begin to loosen. Shit. I quickly place my hands where hers were, holding the baby in place.

I pull back the blanket, and there he is, still nursing. And I freeze.

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

What am I going to do?

She told me about ten minutes ago she was switching sides, so I’m hoping this little guy is almost finished. I sigh and kneelthere, my hands steady beneath his head and bottom, waiting. Five minutes later, he drifts off, his tiny mouth letting go.

“Finally,” I mutter under my breath.

Carefully, I pull him to my chest with one hand and use the other to fix her bra and shirt. My fingers brush her skin, and I flinch like I’ve touched something forbidden. Hell, I have.

If she wants to punch me in the face for this later, I’ll stand there and take it.

Once she’s covered, I shift her gently, grabbing her shoulders and laying her down on the couch. I tuck the pillow under her head and spread the blanket over her body.

“Alright, little man,” I whisper to the baby, his tiny weight warm against my chest. “You need to be burped and changed. We can do this.”

I glance at her one last time, her face relaxed in sleep, and something in my chest tightens. It’s not just the baby that’s fragile. She is, too.

Tank walks into the room just as I grab the diaper bag.

“Alright, little man,” I mutter, glancing down at the baby in my arms. “Let’s get this over with.”

I lay him down on the desk because, well, I don’t have a damn clue where else to do this. Tank is standing in the doorway, his arms crossed and a shit-eating grin plastered on his face.

“You know how to change a diaper, Prez?” he asks softly, clearly enjoying my predicament.

“It’s a fucking diaper, not rocket science,” I snap, though I have zero idea what I’m doing.

The kid lets out a tiny squawk, and I freeze. “Hey, hey, none of that. We’re figuring this out together, alright?”

I fumble with the straps on the onesie, which seems like it’s been designed by an evil genius. After finally getting it off, I peel back the diaper and…

“Holy shit,” I groan, turning my head as the smell hits me like a damn freight train. “What the hell has she been feeding you?”

Tank is outright laughing now. The fact that Riley is sleeping through it is a testament to how exhausted she really is. “Having fun, Prez?”

“Shut the fuck up,” I growl, grabbing the wipes from the bag. It’s only when I start cleaning him that I realize I should’ve been prepared for an ambush.

Warm liquid sprays up, and I barely dodge it. “What the?!” I shout, holding up my hands like I’m under attack. “Is this normal?”

“Yeah,” Tank says, wheezing. “Boys will do that.”

“Thanks for the warning,” I grumble, wiping my arm and cut down with one of the baby wipes. I manage to wrestle a new diaper on him, though it’s definitely crooked. Whatever. It’ll hold.

Next is burping him. How hard can it be?

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